Date: Tue, 07 Oct 2003 20:51:49 +0000
From: Apu Salim
Subject: Closing the Circle
The usual remarks apply - e.g., don't read this story if you don't like
depictions of sex between males. As I'm the author of this story, don't copy
it for other than personal use, without e-mail permission from me in
advance.
Send any comments to: plower_power@hotmail.com
--
Closing The Circle
I lay on my back in bed, in my cool, dark room, looking only at the gray
ceiling, waiting for something to happen. The wind outside blew into my room
through the purple bloom of jacaranda trees, their sweet scent almost
serving as an intoxicant. A muted, purple sunlight filtered weakly through
the drawn blinds on the overcast afternoon.
There was another sort of scent, one that came from the odor of sweat on
bare skin, the kind of sweat that comes, not from physical labor, but from
fear, or from certain, unrepressed memories.
Sounds of the traffic drifted in now and then. Voices of passersby
strolling along the sidewalk slipped through the window, too. Women's
voices, mostly, some speaking English, some Yiddish, fewer still conversing
in Hebrew; in my neighborhood, the Jewish district of Los Angeles, such
women are on their way to shop or to do the family laundry. And there were
the voices of small children, the innocents, who held their mothers' hands.
Anyway, it was good to wait for something to happen, something hidden from
the unsuspecting world just outside my window, and it was good to wait too,
because it heightened the delicious, anticipatory excitement that comes
prior to the sharing of something forbidden.
At last there came a slight movement to my right, where my lover had been
sitting so quietly on the bed next to me, and I realized that Steven was
waiting, too, building up the sense of his own excitement.
He leaned over, putting his hands on my bare feet, and pulled them slowly
up toward my buttocks, so that the backs of my ankles touched the very
cheeks of my rump. Then his hands moved to play in sensuous synchronization
over my naked thighs, and the sounds of traffic were no more, and the
lovely, indistinct voices went silent, and it was only later that I
remembered about the jacarandas and the purple light in my room. I even
forgot about the circle, the circle of love that, like a ring of dancers,
had broken apart, a circle that I had come to close.
Steven pushed my knees out and downward, splaying my legs flat against the
bed, the soles of my feet now pressed together and still up against my rump,
and I had never felt so exposed before the watching eyes of another human
being. I turned finally to look at my lover, saw the sheen of nervous
perspiration on his own forehead and, perhaps because I felt embarrassed at
my vulnerability, I felt my hands float involuntarily over my sex.
It was far late too hide the evidence of my excitement, however, and Steven
pulled my hands apart. He gave a grunt of satisfaction at the sight of my
full-on erection, and firmly returned my arms to my sides, where they
docilely remained. His own hands returned to my thighs with a delicacy of
movement I did not think a man could control.
No, there was no hiding from Steven, or from myself; there would be no more
waiting, and I remembered the circle, and I prayed it was beginning to
close.
When I was five my mother remarried a man quite different, in some ways,
than she, a man who was much different from my real father. Many years older
than my mother, my new father was short, and an intensely shy man. Axel Low,
a Jew, traced his heritage to 16th century Prague, where one of his
progenitors had served with some repute as a rabbi. Axel had survived the
concentration camps of World War Two, and emigrated to the United States a
few years later. He eventually settled in Los Angeles, living for a time in
a comfortable duplex just off Fairfax Boulevard in the city's large, almost
hermetically sealed Jewish district, and not far from his sister, who had
escaped Germany before war broke out in Europe.
Until he met my mother, Axel had not allowed himself to forge an intimate
contact with another human being since his liberation from the death camps
more than 25 years earlier. Such feelings -- or lack of them -- were
understandable, given the circumstances of his own history and the principle
of uncertainty that guides the future of us all. But my new father had lost
more than a feeling of intimacy: he had lost almost all connection to the
rest of the world, and existed, in his own words, as an automaton.
In an odd sort of way, Axel's involuntary aloofness perfectly suited my
mother, Nancy, who, shortly before my birth, had come to the realization
that her first husband, my biological father, was something of a drunken,
abusive monster. My mother, beautiful and just 21 when she married Axel,
had taken flight from her own past, abandoning all contacts with her family
in the Midwest, and almost managing (except in her nightmares, from which
she occasionally woke to find herself screaming) to suppress the memory of
her ex-husband, a sexual predator whom she feared still prowled for her and
for other, fresher victims in the City of Angels.
Thus my mother, a lapsed Catholic, had been as adrift in Los Angeles as was
Axel. She met the poor man at a coffee shop where she worked as a waitress,
where Axel took his lunch breaks, and they knew soon enough, or so they told
me often enough when I was older, that they were well suited for each other.
They married after a few months, and bought a small house on the city's west
side, escaping from the almost village-like life of the Fairfax district,
with its sense of tradition, its long coated rabbis, its connection to
eastern Europe, and the cloying sense of family and extended families that
must have been an anathema for my parents.
Of course, with time my parents might have embraced a sense of community,
and might have more permanently rejoined, but never rejoiced in, the land of
the living. And I might have thrived, there, too. Instead, I began to become
like them.
My mother continued working, a rarity in those days, particularly as my
father earned a more than satisfactory salary; I stayed after school for
many years with my father's sister. And eventually my father and my mother
began to make an emotional commitment to each other, and formed a truly
emotional attachment to me.
My parents were able to construct, and then transfer, even lavish on me a
passionate love they could not show each other. Axel introduced me to the
Torah and Hanukkah, prayer shawls and yarmulkes, latkas and fasting and Yom
Kippur; and he taught me how to think about atonement for one's sins.
More of Axel's relatives moved to Los Angeles, other tattooed survivors of
the concentration camps, and my mother and I introduced my new aunts and
uncles to our own strange customs, to Christmas Eve, and Easter egg hunts,
even Halloween (my mother once costumed me -- a goy - as a dibik, a sort of
Jewish ghost, but there was a sense by the relatives of "We are not amused'
and no one, not even me at the time, enjoyed the irony), and we, my mother
and I, told our new family, with a sense of revulsion and disbelief all
around, about the blood of Christ, and the Holy Trinity, of confession that
was said to cleanse the soul. And somehow we all managed to tolerate each
other. If any of Axel's relatives complained about a non-Jewish wife and
child -- and Axel complained that they did -- it was behind our backs.
After a few years, Alan, Axel's nephew, came to live with us, arriving on a
dank, overcast day. I remember him as a thin boy, and tall, so unlike his
uncle, but nearly as shy as Axel. His own parents, having settled in St.
Louis after the war, conceived Alan when they were in their late 40's, and
had, after several drab years together, finally divorced. When neither
parent laid claim to their own son, my parents somewhat reluctantly took him
in.
A few years older than me, Alan was different than the rest of us, a bit
gawky at first, but he soon grew into a muscular, handsome boy, and he more
swiftly became my big brother, who tossed baseballs with me and helped me
with my homework, who took me on long walks and would talk easily about
anything and everything, and even tried unsuccessfully to teach me how to
play the piano. He was someone to look up to, someone to emulate, a bit of
the father, and even the mother that I, in certain ways, could never have.
And as they came to know Alan, the love my parents gave to me they bestowed
in equal measure to their new son, and I did not begrudge him or them that
love.
Although Alan was only a little older than me, he was in many respects less
naive than I was about certain worldly matters. One night, for example, as
we lay in our beds in our room, I heard muffled sounds come from my parents'
bedroom, down the long, dark hall, and expressed some alarm.
"Don't worry, David," Alan had said. "They're doing what comes naturally."
I was not sure of his meaning, and said so. At age twelve, I had heard
rumors, ugly rumors of what men and women did to one another, but surely it
was not something my parents indulged in, or even contemplated.
"Think about it," Alan said.
After that, whenever I could force myself to stay awake long enough, I
would almost always hear those muffled sounds emanating from my parents'
room. Their sexual appetite, I came to realize, was ravenous, an all
consuming addiction to the sexual pleasures of the flesh.
At first, the thought of my shy father ramming his cock into my mother had
seemed crazy, despite what my brother said, despite the evidence of my ears.
When I was small I had sometimes seen my father's fat, red penis, usually as
he came out of the shower. To my child-like eyes his cock was enormous, its
similarity to snakes in a reptile house something I instantly recognized,
even at so young an age. I was frightened by my father's huge cock, and
intrigued, as well. As I grew older, I wondered if my own tiny member would
ever grow so large, so obviously potent. I learned soon enough, of course,
from the rough language of the streets that my peers spoke, that any penis
would one day indeed be possessed with miraculous powers, able to exist with
an independent life of its own.
A very few times, over the course of the next few years, and only after
Alan had fallen asleep, I would creep out of my bed and make my frightened
way through that long, dark, tunnel-like hallway, to listen just outside my
parents' bedroom door, just as so many other children have done. I was never
discovered.
I cannot say I ever heard my parents make love to one another. Instead,
they communicated with a frenetic coupling of their genitals, which is not
necessarily an act of love. A few times I heard my father's moans and cries,
and listened to my mother -- though her words were indistinct -- urge Axel on.
Their sex was not, apparently, a one way street, limited to a few brutal
thrusts by Axel, the way it must have been with my real father. My mother
was my father's equal in bed, perhaps even his better. Then again, perhaps
she was a bit of a sexual predator, herself.
As I grew older, and learned more about my parents, I saw that it was only
natural they would unite so physically, so frequently. By the end of their
evening's sexual trysts there was, I am sure, as much a sundering as there
was a joining of personalities. The transitory nature of their union no
doubt impelled them to repeat their performance night after night, to seek
atonement for sins spoken and unspoken.
I could eventually bring myself to imagine my father's powerful tool
slipping easily in and out of my mother, a cock that would become quite
slimy with my mother's wetness, from her cunt or her mouth. Axel's cock
would be the lightning rod, linking the two of them gently at first and then
more violently.
Before too long I even found myself tentatively masturbating to the thought
of my parents' sex. I would wait until I was alone in the house (by now we
no longer stayed at my aunt's after school), or even wait for Alan to fall
asleep. I'd heard about jerking off from friends, had long known how good it
felt to practice the sins of Onan, and I had no fear of losing my sight or
growing hair on my palms, nor was I worried that God would exact retribution
for my hedonistic behavior. Even as my parents had their own orgasms almost
every night, I came in some strange way to mimic them, and had to have a
strong cum myself at least once each spin of the globe.
Soon enough I lost interest in fantasizing about my parents, and turned to
images of the girls in my classes. Such images provided more powerful, more
satisfying orgasms, and gave me a window to use to escape a rather dull
existence, made bearable in part by my relationship with Alan.
Then, while riding my bike home from school one day, I found a well thumbed
paperback book lying in the street. It was an anthology of sexually explicit
stories. There was something liberating to me in the stories I read,
something that helped confirm the feeling that my parents were committing no
real sin with their sexual form of love. The fucking in the pages of the
book involved mostly pleasure, or sometimes pleasurable pain, and often a
rougher sort of sex between two -- or more -- people than I had ever imagined.
There was almost never a mention of using sex for procreation, and indeed I
thrilled to hear the confession my parents made to us that they were unable
to conceive of another child, which meant to me that they could enjoy their
fornication without guilt.
Several of the stories dealt with homoerotic themes. The first time I read
one of them I thought I would be consumed with erotic fire. Here, at last,
was a kind of sex completely devoid of anything other than pleasure; there
was no need to fear pregnancy, to fear the entanglements of relationships,
particularly those of marriage; there was only the enjoyment of another
person's body. This wonderful, male sex seemed physically impossible to me,
though I considered it desirable psychologically, and I developed a entirely
new set of fantasies.
My brother Alan, at first more knowledgeable than I about sex, seemed to
have little interest in it himself, and, though his body had developed by
his last year in high school with an athletic grace that many young women
admired, he rarely dated.
Erotic fantasies about either sex could keep me entertained whenever I was
alone, but in my sixteenth year I concentrated on dating the real girls I
began to meet so easily in my first year at high school. And so it was one
day that I returned home from school earlier than usual, having gotten a
ride with a pretty, new girl whom I had begun dating. We sat outside my
house for a minute, our mouths glued together, her breasts soft, yielding
against the pressure of my chest, and one of the girl's hands, I remember,
was laid casually in my lap, the other holding me close around the back of
my neck, so that I left her car in a happy state of arousal, with the sweet
scent of her perfume lingering in my nostrils, mixed with the more subtle
scent of her female body.
It was raining, and I ran into the house, with the sound of the storm
pounding down on the roof. As I entered the hall on the way to my room I
stopped in frightened consternation, hearing, despite the loud rain, muffled
voices, moans and sighs that were bouncing softly off the walls. But my
parents were not due home for at least a few hours, and the sounds I
listened to now weren't coming from their bedroom.
Drawn by an incubus of curiosity, I crept down the hallway to stand just
outside my own room, the door slightly ajar. When my eyes had adjusted to
the darkened room, I saw my brother lying naked in his bed. So was one of
his friends, one of his male friends, similar in athletic build to Alan, but
pale blond where my brother's hair was dark. They were in a state of
arousal, arms and legs entwined, and mouths pressed together, even as the
girl's mouth and mine had pressed close a minute before. Yet our
concupiscence was nothing compared to that which I was witness to in my
room.
I saw my brother push his tongue down the other boy's mouth, and the
nonchalant, sensuous ease with which they treated each other was a sudden
revelation. It brought forth a series of taboo images that a moment before
had resided only in my head, but now took instant flight, caught in that
erotic fire like a swarm Icaruses in reverse, out into the blinding light of
the sun. Until that moment, I truly had believed those male fantasies I had
indulged in were nothing more than that, mere fictions, surely nothing that
could ever have existed outside the invention of the human mind.
The two youths broke their awful, awesome clinch. Alan reached languidly
enough for the other boy's turgid penis, but suddenly began to stroke it
with a fervor that soon left both of them gasping. To an accompaniment of
the other boy's moans, Alan began to play his friend's penis as if it were a
piano piece at one of his recitals, now forte, now pianissimo, now
fortissimo.
For a time neither saw me. Dumbfounded, I watched my brother's friend begin
to lift his masculine rump off the bed in time to Alan's escalating strokes.
Across the room there came a scent, pungent, yet sweet enough to me, of male
bodies bonding in their own sweat.
Then Alan spotted me, and his hand froze in mid-stroke. His friend stared
at me, a grim, tight little expression on his face, not from my discovery of
some private act, but from the cessation of the pleasure he had been
receiving from my brother. He wriggled his hips a bit to jump start the
action, but Alan let go of him.
"David, don't tell anybody about this," Alan stammered. "It would destroy
Axel and Nancy."
I stood when I probably should have left. Neither bed mate made an effort
to cover themselves, and after a moment of silence, Alan's boyfriend - what
else was he? - reached down to take my brother's penis in his own hand.
"Maybe little brother would like to join in the fun," the boy said with a
slight smile, nodding in my direction. He began a slow stroke of Alan's semi
erect cock.
"Shut up, Michael!" my brother called back hotly, but he made no effort to
push his lover's hand away from his stiffening member.
"Whats it matter, he's not your real brother," the other said, still
smiling at me, even as he continued to jerk Alan off. "Come on, David, join
in the fun," he urged, "we'll both help you cum. Your brother," he added,
"won't really mind if you do."
My brother said nothing. Perhaps he did want me to join them, or perhaps he
was just lost in the sensation of the moment. Michael continued to smile in
silence at me as he picked up the pace, and Alan's breathing began to
accelerate. Now my brother's ass begin to pound up and down on the narrow
bed in time to the movement of Michael's hand, and Michael kept smiling at
me as if he knew something about me I did not, or would not admit. Then the
cum flew out of Alan's penis, the milky semen spilling out in strong spurts,
and it shot up onto my brother's chest and over his stomach and onto the
other boy, against whom my brother jerked wildly.
Alan finally shuddered into quiescence, with Michael possessively and
triumphantly holding onto my brother's shrunken cock. Then Alan, with a
short glance over at me and a tiny shrug of his shoulders, pulled his
boyfriend's mouth over to meet his own, and he reached for Michael's thick
cock once again. It was a cock that was unlike Alan's, or our father's. It
was an enormous penis that grew out of a thick, curly patch of blond pubic
hair, and I saw that Michael was, like me, not circumcised, and thus no Jew.
Later I would shiver with guilty pleasure as I realized he was far more
attractive to me than the pretty girl who had driven me home, that the two
lovers together were more beautiful than anyone or anything I had ever seen.
Both boys were now looking at me, but I turned away as Michael turned my
brother onto his back, and I shut the door. As Michael had a turn at his own
brand of fun, the muffled sounds reverberated in the hall again, my
brother's frenzied cries serving as a counterpoint to the rhythmic creaking
of bed springs. I went out into the quiet of a late afternoon, where I sat,
shaking and drenched with rain, rain that could hardly begin to put out the
fires of my erotic confusion. I sat there, trying to cool down, until my
mother came home, trying to cool down while imagining what it was like to
fuck another person, another male, and to be fucked.
Shortly thereafter someone leaked the truth about my brother to Michael's
parents, and the scandal that erupted poisoned relationships between
everyone around us, my parents' few friends, my father's relatives, and the
four of us. My parents, so shamed, could no longer share their love with
either of their children, and I soon discovered that they stopped their sex
play at night, breaking the nexus that had bound them together.
A month later, Alan killed himself. How, or where is not germane. My
parents, as I thought might happen, began their fucking again soon enough.
So Alan had been wrong. My parents were not destroyed. What was destroyed,
along with Alan's life, was my parents' love for me, which I mistakenly
thought would flow again from whatever was left of it in their hearts.
At school I was treated to new terms of endearment, cock sucker and queer
just a few among the many, and I had no way to refute the lies about me that
I think may have been spread by Michael, or perhaps I was just tainted
because I was the brother of a homosexual; of course I no longer had any
currency with girls. The ostracism forced upon me was thus complete, though
it reflected, I liked to think, my tormentors' secret longings as much as
their rabid fears. As delicately as possible I raised the subject of my
outcast status with my parents, who agreed that I should spend my last two
years before college in a private high school in Ojai, at that time a sleepy
mountain town about sixty miles to the north of Los Angeles.
The school was co-educational, though we slept, of course, in boys' and
girls' dorms. The chance to partake in "deviant" sexual activities was
immediately obvious to all but the most obtuse of newcomers, but I was not
interested. For those two years I refrained from entering into liaisons that
might have compromised the self image I tried diligently to create and
maintain for myself. If I did make love to boys, it was only in the
occasional masturbatory fantasies I indulged in when my roommates were not
present, and even then rather reluctantly. I otherwise spent a fair amount
of time with girls, exploring what I thought were the more normal ranges of
my sexual self, learning how to properly fuck any number of my dates to
please them, and, of course, myself, though satisfaction in so doing always
seemed to elude me.
At the end of two years I entered college, financially supported by my
parents, returning to Los Angeles to attend UCLA. I chose, with their
obviously happy approval, not to live at home with my parents. At first I
lived on campus in one of the boxlike dorms, up on the hill along Circle
Drive, and then I rented a small, inexpensive apartment not far from where
my parents and I had first lived, the Fairfax district, returning, in a way,
to my adoptive roots.
When I visited them, my parents were still formal, still aloof, as they had
been since Alan's death. I wondered if they continued their nightly fucking,
but I knew I would never find out. Axel by now was graying rapidly, but
seemed to have an iron constitution. My mother was still quite beautiful,
even youthful in appearance. But for me their love, at least the kind of
love they had given me before, was still dormant, and probably dead.
As I had in Ojai, I made friends easily at college, and even with people in
the neighborhood. By my senior year I was very close with a small circle of
companions, both young men and women, who exhibited, I realized only later,
at least slight traits of rebelliousness. I slept with several of the women,
but I had one true friend in Steven Takuda, a sophomore from the state of
Washington. We shared something in common that drew us closely together. His
parents had, like mine, been prisoners, their incarceration taking form as
inmates during the war, in a Japanese-American concentration camp at
Manzanar, along the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada mountains.
Between us we were a physical study in contrasts. My skin was pale, my hair
a pale red, where Steven's skin was almost bronze in color, his hair jet
black. We did stand at the same height, which for Steven was rather tall for
an Asian, but his body, though lithe enough, was relatively stocky where
mine was thin. He was, I think, far more handsome than me, with an exotic
face framed with high cheekbones.
I liked him, among other reasons, because he seemed to carry a certain
amount of his own excess baggage from his Oriental past, cultural
accouterments so different from my own dual heritages. To me he seemed
neither male nor female, nor even androgynous, but was almost like a third
sex.
Steven, nor any of the others, knew much about my past, or anything about
my brother. I knew, with my parent's tortured history, that my family was
not typical of other families, but I often wondered about those of my fellow
students, how they and their parents carried on behind closed doors,
wondered if demons stalked any of them at times, too. But broaching these
subjects with my companions, even with Steven, while possible,was rarely
practical.
Gradually, without knowing at first, or maybe not wanting to know, I began
to monopolize Steven's time, becoming in a way his mentor, working on term
papers with him, tossing a baseball, taking long walks around the campus to
talk about anything and everything, drinking beer in his dorm room or
occasionally in my apartment. He knew, before I did, what I had begun to
feel for him, what I needed from him, and he knew what he was beginning to
want from me. I found that for the first time in a long time I began to feel
alive again when I was with my friend, and I began to comprehend that he
might be the one to help me close the circle.
One day Steven brought his text books home with me. Ostensibly, we had
agreed to study and have dinner. We took the bus up Pico Boulevard, past the
bagel shops and delis and the small, fragrant, open air fruit and produce
markets that, in part, gave my neighborhood its peculiarly old world charm,
and we walked the last few blocks north along Sherbourne Drive, a quiet
street lined with jacaranda trees. The sunlight this late afternoon in
winter was pallid as we climbed up to my little second floor apartment. We
shared a beer -- I didn't keep much else in my refrigerator in those days --
and we left the text books closed on the little dining room table, choosing
to talk.
At some point it was Steven who brought the subject around to sex, and we
joked about our experiences with girls. Then he managed easily enough --
quickly enough -- to ask me if I had ever experimented sexually with a man. I
shook my head from side to side, and asked him the same question.
"Once in a while," he answered. Then, looking directly at me, he said,
"Would you like to sleep with me, David?"
We finished our beers and Steven went to the bathroom to urinate, and moved
to my bedroom while I took my turn at the can. When I entered the room
Steven was already stripped to his white briefs, sitting casually on my bed.
He stood and walked to meet me halfway across the room, and held me by the
shoulders for a moment. We learned forward for a first kiss, and it was
surprisingly easy to put my lips to another male's lips. And then he helped
me unbutton and take off my shirt. His own skin, I noted, was reasonably
smooth, with only a little hair on his legs and arms.
I dropped my own pants and briefs, kicked them out of the way, and took the
firm, warm hand Steven offered me. He led me to the bed and I stretched out.
In a quick movement Steven's underpants came off, and he lifted himself onto
the bed to sit next to me. I looked up at the gray ceiling, and listened to
the sounds of traffic and people outside, and smelled the blooming
jacarandas and saw the purple sunlight that filtered into my room this late,
overcast afternoon, and waited.
My legs were tingling from the touch his gentle caresses, and Steven said
"I knew this would be a turn-on for you." His hands moved up to my inner
thighs, a little wet with my nervous sweat, and his fingers brushed against
and teased the shaft of my cock. His cock, which was hard and enormous,
stood up against his belly. Then he stretched out next to me and our arms
and legs became entwined. We broke our clinch, and taking his sex in my
hand, I began to stroke Steven with a fervor that soon left us both gasping.
"We've got time," Steven said, holding my hand at bay. "We've got all
afternoon and all night," he promised, "there's no need to hurry it."
Despite his words, or perhaps because of them, it didn't take very long to
have my first ejaculation with a man. Steven had bent over to kiss me on my
lips and started lightly stroking my cock.
"This is crazy," I said, laughing nervously against his lips.
"But you like it?" he asked, drawing back from me, his hand still working
at my cock.
"Yes."
"It's good?"
"Perfect."
"Tell me when you're ready."
"Not yet," I answered.
"Your almost there."
"Almost," I agreed quietly
"Tell me when," he urged.
"Now!" I cried, as Steven brought me to as explosive a cum as I have ever
had. He helped me finish with his practiced hands. Although I had been
masturbated girls, I realized it had never been so exciting as it was with
Steven.
I reached for him again, and this time, as darkness settled comfortably
over us, he did not resist my touch.
When we calmed down I wiped the last of the cum that oozed out of him into
the palm of my hand, and he squirmed, too sensitive to the touch after his
hard orgasm. A little later he turned me over and ran his fingers from my
neck down to the crack in my ass, this time making me squirm .
We took a short nap in my bed, and woke feeling erotically inclined, but
hungry, too. Padding naked around the kitchen -- "Let's not get dressed,"
Steven suggested -- we scrounged something for dinner. It was difficult not
to stare continually at Steven's face, at his body, at his cock, which like
mine fluctuated in an erect or half erect state throughout our hurried meal.
We skipped dessert, and the text books were left unopened; we had other
homework assignments to complete.
Back in bed, with the covers pushed to the floor, my mentor turned me on my
stomach again, and I felt his mouth on my neck, felt his tongue begin to
make its way down my back, ending at the crack in my ass. This time I didn't
squirm, but I was still nervous about his intentions. "I guess we can save
some things for later," he said, and I relaxed.
I twisted onto my back and pulled his face down to mine, latching my lips
onto his and sucking his tongue into my mouth. Steven eased his body next to
mine on the bed, and the smell of him was strong, but not unpleasant. We lay
comfortably on our sides, and rubbed our cocks intermittently together. Our
heat brought a different odor of sweat to the air now, not of fear, but the
odor of sweat that came from the close bonding of two male bodies.
Steven sat astride me and I placed my hands on his hips. I marveled at his
muscular chest, and his small, dark nipples. He saw me looking at them and
arched his eyebrows in a silent question.
"Yes," I answered, with a nod of my head.
Smiling dreamily, he leaned over and, with easy alternation, offered one
and then the other of his nipples for me to kiss. As I sucked him I put my
hands behind his back and caressed his soft skin. He began to softly moan
and his hips moved back and forth over my thighs, and I felt his penis move
at right angles over my own.
Later, we got into a 69, and as we lay head to foot, Steven brought his
mouth to my penis. He took me inside his mouth, and I felt my rod quiver
with pleasure from the warm pressure exerted by his tongue and lips. He
tenderly put his fingers around the bottom of my shaft and masturbated me,
too, slowly pulling me deeper into him, and I began to pump my ass a little
to hurry the arrival of what had begun to feel like a giant wave, a wave
that had begun forming far off shore in the stormy sea of my mind a long
time before.
After a while I could only fling my arms around Steven's waist, and hold
him tight, feeling his own, hot cock, hard up against my cheek. I fought
wildly to hold back while he moved with me, sucked on me, and reached around
to ease a finger into me, ease it gently into my anus, while he continued
with his other hand to masturbate me. He was making me give more of myself
than I had given anyone before, more than I thought I wanted to give.
Yet I was also afraid I wouldn't be able to give anything at all, afraid
that the wave might remain forever stalled off shore. I think I may have
even tried to pull out of his mouth, and pushed on his hand a little, and
then I heard myself call out my lover's name, and I pumped as hard and as
fast as I could as I felt my cum shoot up through the top of my cock and
down Steven's throat, as an erotic fire swept over me, as the circle started
to close.
In a little while, after I had recovered, the process was reversed, and I
began to give Steven the same pleasure he had given me. I pushed him on his
back and sitting next to him, I licked his neck and cheeks and ears, and ran
my tongue over his nipples, circling them first, before using my lips to
softly suckle them. He squirmed a little, even as my index finger moved
lightly down over his stomach, to trace the outline of his hard cock. ("Oh,
yeah!," he kept repeating.) Then I had his cock in my hand, pumping him
while my mouth moved down to find the top of his shaft and take him inside
me. I sucked him in, and I kept masturbating the part of his cock not inside
my mouth. It didn't take long, and I tasted his hot seed as it shot out of
his penis and into my mouth. I had no compunction about drinking it down.
For as long as he squirted his semen inside me, Steven bucked his hips up
and down, up and down, grunting and moaning with the pleasure I was giving
him.
With much of the tension drained between us, an adventure in a more cloacal
vein occurred at dawn, after Morpheus brought us a few hours of sleep, and
after a quick, shared shower. Steven found a little container of Vaseline in
my medicine cabinent. Back in bed, we coated each other's cock, and then we
experimented for a while with frottage, rubbing our well-lubed and
well-rested penises together, or against each other's thigh. I could have
easily cum doing that, but after a while we stopped, and now I was on my
back, Steven bove me. He then did his best to put me at ease, using his
tongue and globs of spittle to lubricate my anus, then switched to the
Vaseline and really opened me up as he gently probed inside me with his
fingers. After a time he reached under my waist to find and manipulate my
slick cock.
"You called someone's name," Steven said.
"What do you mean?"
"It's o.k., I don't mind. You called someone's name," Steven said, "when
you were inside my mouth, just as you were beginning to cum that second
time, you called out a name. Alan, you shouted Alan."
It was time for Steven to take what he required of me, while I received in
equal measure the last of what I needed from him. After the preliminaries,
he rose up above my ass, which in turn rested atop a pillow, and he made a
tentative thrust, held still for a long moment, and then began to push his
big penis past my resistance, making his way into my most secret recesses,
deep, deep into my anus.
"So nice," Steven whispered as he pushed ever deeper inside me. "Oh, yeah!"
he repeated. "Oh yeah!" I rose as best I could against him, enjoying the
sensation of being fucked by someone I liked, giving myself so completely
for the sexual pleasure of another male. When he pushed down on me, I could
feel the heat of his balls on the outside of his ass, a nice counterpoint to
the full feeling his nice cock was giving me, now. As Steven found his
rhythm, the bed springs began a rhythmic creaking, creaking, creaking, a
counterpoint to my frenzied cries.
I wonder at times if I will make love to a woman again. It is hard to
imagine a woman inducing the same sort of passion one man can arouse in
another man. It is the same way, I wonder, when two or more women share each
other?
I have, in fact almost forgotten what it is like to have sex with a woman;
I can, however, recall images and sensations of soft breasts pressed against
my chest, of long legs wrapped tightly around my own, of legs shaved smooth
to simulate and preserve an illusion of almost indecent youth, when in
reality we are all decaying.
But each time I make love to a man I am reanimated, newly created and
connected, almost human, and I can extirpate my guilt. It is guilt I cannot
easily expunge, a guilt that has metamorphosed from the memory that besets
my brooding brain. It is the memory that I was the one -- of course, of
course -- who informed on my brother and his lover.
That is why I lie here with yet another lover, one of so many lovers after
Steven. This lover's penis (an icon, like a crucifix or rosary beads from my
mother's world, or a shem - a Jewish charm - from my father's realm) is
nestled comfortably in my hand.
We both want this dance to begin, but I wait for a moment, wondering if l
can ever close the broken circle.
plower_power@hotmail.com